hollow that Jenks had created earlier.
Walsingham shot the Doctor an impatient glance. “A very pretty mummery,” he said. “But what happened then?”
The mechanical bobbed up again and shook off the persona of the groom. Striding to the entrance he assumed a new role and came sneaking into the barn, looking this way and that and advancing with nervous, jerky movements.
“Now we have it,” Doctor Dee declared. “The third player in this lethal equation.”
Lantern stole over to the empty impression in the straw, rubbing his gauntleted hands together as he had seen the malefactor do before. Taking pains not to make any sound, he performed the planting of the incriminating bottle in the sleeping groom’s purse, then turned to where Belladonna had stood.
Holding out his small hands to appease and calm the high-spirited steed, he stalked towards the now empty spot, his copper shoulders shaking as if with mirth. Deftly, his palms travelled across unseen contours until, with an expert twist which had obviously popped one of the steel plates free, he reached up, holding something carefully between his fingers.
“Enough,” Walsingham rapped. “The rest is plain. Who, then, is responsible?”
The burlesque over, Lantern took a side step to cast off the villainous character. Returning to his master, his round head revolved slowly in order to survey everyone present.
From the door, where Henry was still standing, those green lenses panned through the barn. Over Master Tewkes they roamed, then Jenks, Lord Richard, Adam and the remains of Belladonna, until at last they rested upon Sir Francis Walsingham.
“Is the rogue present?” the Queen’s advisor demanded.
Lantern bowed then walked purposefully towards the entrance. Watching him approach, Henry Wattle began to splutter, but there was no need to be alarmed, for the copper figure veered aside and pointed an accusing finger at Master Arnold Tewkes.
“What game is this?” the man exclaimed in an injured voice. “Get away from me, you walking kettle!”
The mechanical stood his ground.
“Tewkes,” Walsingham hissed. “What have you to say?”
“Only that I find no jest in this. Remove this clunking hobgoblin at once, before I lose my temper.”
Lantern continued to point. Master Tewkes snorted angrily and lashed out with a vicious kick which sent his denouncer staggering back.
“Explain yourself!” Walsingham growled.
Master Tewkes drew himself up. “Surely, My Lord,” he objected, “you are not serious in this? I have served you faithfully for many years, yet you are ready to accept this silent clowning as evidence against me. I am dismayed and affronted.”
“Lantern is never mistaken,” Doctor Dee said firmly. “His vision is often deeper and clearer than mine own.”
“He is at fault, I tell you!” Tewkes denied hotly.
The mechanical shook its head and again the finger pointed. Incensed, the furious man sprang forward, pushing Lantern off balance then leaping on top of him. In an instant he had wrenched the copper breastplate away and spat upon the exposed, delicate workings.
The little figure flailed beneath him as Master Tewkes raised his fist to smash the glass vessels of the controlling ichors. “You’ll accuse no more!” he ranted. “A pan for stewing cabbages is all you’ll be fit for when I’m done.”
Before the threat could be carried out, Doctor Dee and the groom dragged him clear, and Jenks pinned him against the wall. Master Tewkes struggled and demanded to be set free; then he caught sight of Walsingham’s grim face and his efforts ceased. A wintry light was glinting in Sir Francis’ dark eyes.
“You knew,” he breathed, bewildered. “You have suspected me all along.”
“Not all along,” Walsingham confessed. “Your singular condemnation of all Popery did kindle my initial suspicions, for they were such ardent damnings that they left a bitter tang upon even my Puritan palate. Yet gradually I learned of your treachery and collated as much intelligence pertaining to it as was possible.”
“How much?”
Walsingham’s eyebrows bunched together. “You are in the employ of Spain,” he stated. “You were indiscreet enough to be observed at a clandestine meeting with the ambassador, the Count de Feria, on two occasions during the past five years. Yet I have further proofs than that and expect many more still.”
Master Tewkes turned pale. “There is no need for torture,” he said quickly. “I will tell you everything.”
“Oh, I know, but it’s tidier this way, don’t you think? You were always such a zealous clerk that I am certain you understand. A tickle of torture to give veracity to your statements, and then …”
“Then?”
Sir Francis permitted himself a grave smile. “The Tower,” he snarled.
“No!” Master Tewkes yelled in terror. “Not there! I beseech you, My Lord! I would rather die a hundred deaths.”
“One will suffice,” Walsingham said coldly. “The Tower it is.”
“Never!” the man cried in panic, and with a shriek he stamped violently upon Jenks’ injured foot. The groom recoiled, and in that brief moment of liberty, Master Tewkes snapped the neck of the bottle containing the indigo ichor and poured the liquid down his own throat.
A wild, dangerous look clouded his face as the fatal juice trickled into his stomach, and his stained lips blistered immediately. “I’ll not go to that doom!” he cried, his voice rising to a high, mad laugh. “Though you, My Lord, may shortly be consigned there. The time of Elizabeth, the misbegotten usurper, is over! The crown of Englandia will be cast from Her head. Philip will reign here. This uplifted world is for the true Catholic faith – not your filthy heresy. It must be cleansed of your infection, as God plainly wills …”
The secretary shuddered as an agonising spasm seized him and he gripped his stomach feverishly. The venomous ichor was scorching his insides and he dropped to his knees, convulsing in torment.
Lord Richard hastened over to him but Master Tewkes was beyond rescue. Dark blue vapour trailed from his nose and mouth and, emitting a last gurgling cry, the traitor fell on his face and expired.
Richard Wutton knelt beside the dead man, whose features had assumed a hideous, chalk-like pallor. The master of Malmes-Wutton looked across to the crushed corpse of Edwin Dritchly lying by the barn entrance. It had been a night of horrors and countless emotions broiled inside him.
“I did not expect that,” Walsingham said dryly. “There was much he could have told us – what a squandered opportunity.”
Doctor Dee agreed. “I did not foresee what other purpose the malignant ichor might be used for,” he murmured. “We must be doubly vigilant. ’Twould seem our enemies have been most busily occupied.”
“They are massing their strength, constantly devising new weapons of destruction. My spies in the Spanish court have recently despatched reports of mechanical torture masters, diabolic instruments which only a Catholic mind could envisage. I would dearly like to obtain a copy of the plans.”
Lord Richard could endure it no longer and his simmering rage finally burst forth. “Listen to you!” he snapped. “You chatter and squawk whilst two men lie dead, and pick over their carcasses like carrion birds. This ridiculous visit was orchestrated solely for the purpose of unmasking your secretary. The blood of Edwin Dritchly besmears you both.”
Walsingham regarded him with faint surprise. “I regret the death of your craftsman,” he drawled in his usual composed and maddeningly detached manner. “But it was necessary to capture Tewkes as far away from court as possible. You still